


Family

by TheAngush



Series: Family [1]
Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, POV Female Character, Romance, Sexual Content, Widowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAngush/pseuds/TheAngush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brockton Bay, 2003. Mark Dallon dies in a cape fight; elsewhere, Annette Hebert is hit by a drunk driver. Carol Dallon and Danny Hebert are left to raise their children on their own. But at least Carol has friends and family to support her, and when a coworker refers her to a single parents support group, their paths cross...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place prior to the unveiling of New Wave. Slight AU in regards to the timeline and the specifics of Carol and Mark's relationship. This chapter is not explicit, but the next one is (and a fair sight longer, too).

I didn’t know what to do.  
  
The sun was setting now, headstones casting their long rectangular shadows onto the grass, still wet from the rain. A cheap imitation of tranquility, like someone had missed the memo. Graveyards weren’t supposed to be sunny.  
  
The gravestone itself was granite, smooth and clean-cut. The design was simple: a rectangle, gently rounded at the edges. Nothing fancy. They couldn’t really afford it right now. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have cared, anyway.  
  
The inscription was just as simple. Mark Dallon. 1971 to 2003. Beloved father, husband, and son. Taken too soon. Etcetera. He wouldn’t have cared about that, either.  
  
That was sort of the point. He hadn’t been  _meant_  to care. That was a known quantity. Something that had always been accounted for, right from the start.  
  
His apathy was part of the plan. His death wasn’t.  
  
A sound escaped my lips.  
  
_The plan._  Like there was one.  
  
A hand dropped on my shoulder and squeezed, firm but gentle. I turned and looked at my sister. She looked back, but didn’t say anything. I sighed, turning back to the gravestone.  
  
We stood in silence for a while longer, her hand on my shoulder, a reminder that she’d always been the strong one. That I was never good enough.  
  
“That’s not true,” Sarah said, her voice soft. I glanced back at her. Had I said that out loud? Damn. “Everyone has their moments of weakness. You know I have. There’s no shame in that.”  
  
I looked back at the gravestone. “Where’s Victoria?”  
  
Sarah said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “She’s with Amy.” I flinched. I couldn’t help it. “Neil’s looking after them.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“How is she?”  
  
“ _They_  were asleep when I left. They shared Crystal’s bed. She says they cried themselves to sleep.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
More silence.  
  
“How are you holding up?” Sarah said.  
  
“I should be with her,” I said.  
  
“You need to grieve, too.”  
  
“She’s more important.”  
  
“No she isn’t.”  
  
I looked at her again, my fists clenched hard. “How can you say that?”  
  
Sarah sighed. “She has Amy. They’ll support each other.”  
  
“ _I_  should be doing that!”  
  
“You can’t. Not the same way.”  
  
“I… What?”  
  
“They’re sisters, Carol.”  _No they’re not._  “ _Yes_ , they  _are_. They can cry on each other’s shoulders. You have to be strong for them. You can’t do that. Not yet.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You haven’t cried.”  
  
“So? I didn’t… I don’t…” I trailed off. The fight left me, and I looked back at the gravestone.  
  
Silence.  
  
“I…”  _Dammit!_  “Did I ever tell you why I married him?”  
  
“I guessed,” Sarah said.  
  
“But did I ever tell you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“He… he was safe,” I said. “Easy. Something I could… control.”  
  
Sarah didn’t speak.  
  
“He never… started anything. He never  _wanted_  anything. He never argued. He always did what I told him to. I… He… Whenever we had sex, it was me. I initiated it. I was in control. It started when I said so, and it  _ended_  when I said so.  
  
“I… I had everything planned out. He wasn’t supposed to be a  _husband_. He was supposed to be a tool. A means to an end. He gave us an edge in fights. He… he gave me Victoria. And that was it. T-that was all I wanted him for. I d-didn’t love him. N-never. I—”  
  
Sarah spun me around and wrapped me in her arms.  
  
“Sa— W-what are you doing?”  
  
“Hugging you, stupid,” Sarah said. Her voice was shaky.  
  
“W-why?” I raised my hands to her shoulders. “Y-you don’t…”  
  
“You’re crying, Carol.” She pulled back a bit and looked me in the eyes, tears streaming down her face.  
  
“N-n-no I’m n-not,” I said. Why was I stuttering? “W-why would I be c-crying? I d-don’t…”  
  
“It’s okay, Carol.”  
  
“I—“ I tried to stop my arms from trembling.  
  
“It’s just us here. Just you and me.”  
  
“I—I wasn’t—“  
  
“It’s okay.” She pulled me back into her embrace and squeezed hard, one hand pushing my head down into her neck, stroking my hair.  
  
_I wasn’t supposed to love him._  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
For the first time in fifteen years, I cried.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Sarah carried me to her house. She kept above the clouds for most of the way, so nobody could identify us, and floated through the window of her bedroom under cover of darkness.  
  
She put me down, then left for a minute. When she came back, she lay down beside me and wrapped me in her arms again.  
  
I don’t remember falling asleep.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Sarah woke me the next morning with breakfast-in-bed. Bacon and eggs, with a glass of orange juice on the side. We ate together, and made an even bigger mess of her bed, but she didn’t care.  
  
“How are you feeling?” she asked when we’d finished, smiling softly and putting an arm around me.  
  
“I’m fi—“ I stopped myself. “I don’t know. But I’m… It’s better than it was yesterday.”  
  
Sarah squeezed my shoulder. “That’s good.” She stood and grinned mischieviously. “Now, what do you want to do today? Watch a movie? Or maybe go window shopping? Y’know, some good-old-fashioned sisterly bonding?”  
  
I smiled. “Maybe some other time. I… I think I should go back.”  
  
Sarah’s grin faded. “Are you sure?” she said. “You know you can stay here as long as you want.”  
  
“I know,” I said. “But you were right, earlier. I have to be strong. For… for them.”  
  
“And you know you can call any time. I’ll come. Always.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Sarah looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll get the girls, then.”  
  
“No,” I said, grabbing her arm. “I’ll do it.” I walked past her, to the door, and stopped. I looked back at her. “And, uh… Sarah…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I… Thank you,” I said. It shouldn’t have been so hard. “For everything.”  
  
Sarah smiled, and stepped forward to hug me again. “You’re my sister, Carol. I’ll do anything for you. I love you.”  
  
I smiled into her hair. “I love you, too.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
We walked out into the kitchen, Sarah taking our dishes to the sink. Victoria and Amy were sitting at the dining table opposite Crystal and Eric, poking absently at their breakfast. I stopped behind them. Neil was attempting to entertain them with some story of his, but only Eric seemed to be paying attention. He stopped talking when he saw me.  
  
“Victoria,” I said. “Amy.”  
  
The girls turned to look at me. Their eyes were red and puffy, their hair messy and unkempt.  
  
_You have to be strong for them._  
  
For  _them_.  
  
“Come here, girls,” I said, kneeling down and spreading my arms. “We’re going home.”  
  
They glanced at each other, then jumped off their chairs and ran into my arms, burying their faces in my chest.  
  
I closed my arms around my daughters and hugged them tight.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written around Christmas 2015, I just apparently never properly posted it here.

“Amy! Victoria!” I said, walking into Victoria’s room and throwing open the curtains. I turned on my girls, hands on my hips and projecting an image of sternness—I hoped. “I told you to get up ten minutes ago.”  
  
They groaned and sat up, rubbing at their eyes and blinking away sleep. Amy had her own room, of course, but she’d been having bad dreams, and I still found her sharing Victoria’s bed at least once a week. Victoria glared at the curtains. “Can’t we sleep in?” she said.  
  
“You’ve  _already_  slept in,” I pointed out. “If you don’t get up now, we’ll be late for school, and I  _refuse_  to let you be late on the first day.” Victoria opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “And before you ask: no, aunt Sarah  _can’t_  fly you to school. She’s not your personal airliner, and she still has a secret identity to worry about.”  
  
Victoria pouted, and Amy giggled. “But it’s so much fun,” Victoria said.  
  
“I know, dear,” I said, then clapped my hands together. “But you’ll have to settle for the car. Now, up! Up! I made your lunches last night. Your uniforms have been ironed—don’t expect that every day, either—and your bags are packed. All you need to do is get dressed, brush your teeth, and have breakfast. It’s already down there, waiting for you.”  
  
Amy grinned at me. “Can we brush our teeth  _after_  breakfast?” she said. “It’ll taste funny if we do it your way.”  
  
I smiled. “You can if you  _really_  want to, I suppose. So long as you do it now.” I gestured upwards, and my girls climbed out of bed and trudged down the stairs, Victoria grumbling under her breath. They sat at the table and I served up the pancakes and the assorted toppings, gave them a time limit, and left them to eat.  
  
I had to pack for myself, too.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Someone sat down next to me. “Hey, Carol.”  
  
I looked up from my sandwich. “Good morning, Alan.”  
  
Alan smiled, cracking open his own lunch—something in a paper bag emblazoned with the logo of the fast-food joint down the street. “Good to have you back.”  
  
“It’s good to be back,” I said. And it was—for the first time in my life, I’d taken a month’s leave from work; after I’d gone to pick up the girls from school and found Amy in tears and Victoria in bruises, a few months into their fourth year, I knew I couldn’t just leave them alone. So I’d been trying to give them the attention and support I knew they needed, but it was… hard.  
  
As ashamed as I was to admit it… I had no idea how to be a parent. Especially not when work occupied so much of my time. So I’d taken a break, to be with my girls—at Sarah’s suggestion, of course. I didn’t know what I’d do without her.  
  
Superheroing had… fallen at the wayside. Another first. But I just… I told myself I didn’t have the time, which was true, but honestly? I didn’t want to do it anymore. It was dangerous. It had never made me happy. And I wasn’t convinced anything I did really mattered, not in the grand scheme of things; and I wasn’t so sure Sarah’s New Wave idea would actually change anything for the better.  
  
Marquis was the only time I could say I’d made a difference, but if I were honest with myself, I hadn’t gone after him as hard as I had because he was  _dangerous_. He’d led the least egregious villain organisation in Brockton Bay; the effect he’d had on the city was minimal compared to Allfather or Galvanate—or even the Teeth, before they’d left.  
  
No, I hadn’t gone after Marquis to help people. I’d done it because I hated him. And that had almost gone horribly, horribly wrong. Donny and Neil had almost died. And I’d… I’d almost killed Amy, by accident. I hadn’t been in any real danger myself, but that was only true because my opponent was Marquis. Any other villain wouldn’t have hesitated to kill me, or any of the others.  
  
And… as much as I hated to admit it, that scared me. If something happened to me, my girls would be alone.  
  
I couldn’t do that to them.  
  
“How was your break?” Alan said. “The girls doing okay?”  
  
“I think so. Amy’s been having a lot of bad dreams lately, but… they’re coping.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
“I’m doing fine,” I said. “It’s been six months.”  
  
Alan raised an eyebrow. “And you were married for ten years.”  
  
“I…” I stopped, and sighed. “Balancing it all is the hardest part.”  
  
“Balancing what?”  
  
“This. All of it. Work. Socialising. Keeping in shape. Not just… giving up. Supporting the girls— _raising_  the girls.”  
  
“Harder to do it all alone?”  
  
“I… don’t know. I don’t think it was any easier when he was alive, not really. It  _felt_  easier, but…” I sighed again. “I’m coping.”  
  
“Hmm.” He pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket, and unfolded it in his hands. “I… Well, a friend of mine lost his wife not long ago. Eight months, almost. Car crash.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve known him since college—both of them, actually. His daughter, Taylor, is friends with my Emma, and she’s been spending a lot of time at our house since her mother passed. She basically lived with us the first two or three weeks. He’s… never been good with grief. He took her back, of course, but she still comes ‘round every other week.”  
  
He blinked, then coughed into his fist. “Err, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Point is, Zoe found this, uh, support group.” He handed the pamphlet to me. “It’s for single parents. Especially those who, uh… lost their partners. It’s called Parents Moving Forward. She brought it up with him, and, uh… convinced him to go, to put it lightly. Beat him into going, to put it another way. He’s been to three meetings, so far. They do one every fortnight, on Saturdays. At five o’clock. The next one is this weekend.”  
  
I glanced over the pamphlet. There was a cartoonish depiction of a woman holding hands with a small girl, both looking at a setting sun. Or a rising sun, I suppose. They were standing in a field of yellow flowers, maybe daisies or daffodils. The name, ‘Parents Moving Forward’, was displayed in a bubbly font that curved above the sun. The back of the pamphlet had another cartoon portraying a man and a woman hugging platonically, accompanied by several paragraphs about how I wasn’t alone and other people knew what I was going through and… so on so forth.  
  
I looked up at Alan. “And you… want me to go to this?”  
  
Alan pinched his chin. “Well, I think you should… consider it. And if you decide not to go, still keep it in mind. Danny—uh, that’s my friend—says it’s been helping him. He even got some tips on, uh, reconnecting with his daughter. She’s eight, now, and she was always closest to her mother, so it hit her pretty hard. Uh, they let you bring someone with you, too, if you feel you need more support. You could take your sister, maybe. I don’t know. Oh! They have a child-care service, too, so you can bring the girls. Maybe they’d make a few friends.”  
  
I nodded slowly, reading over the back of the pamphlet. “I’ll think about it.”  
  
“That’s all I ask,” Alan said, breathing out heavily. “If you do go, my friend’s name is Danny Hebert. I think you’d get along.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
I debated with myself for the rest of the week. Should I go? Should I not? Why? I didn’t  _like_  the idea. I was doing fine. I didn’t need to… I don’t know, to sit down in a circle and talk about my  _feelings_  with a bunch of strangers. How could that possibly help me? But still, a nagging part of my mind refused to let me actually discard the idea, and so I thought.  
  
Friday arrived, and I hadn’t made a decision yet. So, I sent my girls up to bed, and I did what I’d found myself doing a lot lately: I called my sister.  
  
“You should go,” she said as soon as I’d finished explaining to her, her voice muffled slightly by the phone’s quiet buzzing; probably a result of dropping it one too many times.  
  
“You think?” I said, sandwiching the phone between my ear and shoulder as I cleaned the dining table.  
  
“Definitely,” Sarah replied. There was a second of silence. “Do you not want to go?”  
  
I scraped Victoria’s leftover peas into the bin. I’m not sure why I even bothered; she never ate those. “I don’t know,” I sighed. “It’s just… it sounds a bit too much like therapy. Only worse, because you’re not even talking to a professional, just a bunch of random people.”  
  
Sarah laughed, but didn’t say anything for a long moment. “When he died, you talked to me about it, remember?  _Actually_  talked about it?”  
  
I nodded; there was only one ‘he’ she could be referring to. Then, remembering she couldn’t see me, I said, “I remember.”  
  
“Do you think that helped?”  
  
“I… Yeah.” I dumped the girls’ plates in the sink. “Yeah, it helped.”  
  
“I’m glad,” Sarah said. I could picture her smile. “But see, I didn’t really know what you were going through. I still don’t. I can barely begin to  _imagine_  what losing Neil would do to me. So I did what I could for you, but I couldn’t do much.”  
  
“That’s not—“  
  
“No, shush,” Sarah cut me off. “Let me finish, please. These people, the ones that you’d be meeting with… they  _know_ , right? They’ve lost someone too. They have kids too. They’ve  _been_ where you are. They actually  _know_  what you’re going through. I don’t; not really. And I think that would be good for you, to have people who  _understand_ , and that you can go to for advice.”  
  
I sighed. Again. “I guess you’re right. But… I mean, I don’t know any of these people.”  
  
“And you never will if you don’t give them a chance,” Sarah said. She sounded awfully self-satisfied. “Who knows? You might even make a  _friend_.”  
  
“Maybe,” I laughed, despite how sad that was. After all, I didn’t really have any friends. Sarah was my best friend, but she was also my sister, so she didn’t really count. Neil… I liked him, I approved of him; I even found him  _attractive_ —Sarah wouldn’t be married to him if I didn’t—but I didn’t really think of him as a friend; he was just my sister’s husband. The same applied to Donny and his girlfriend, Rebecca. Maybe Alan and Janice, from work? They could conceivably be called friends, I suppose, but I wasn’t entirely sure.  
  
And that was even  _more_  depressing.  
  
“So you’re going then?” Sarah said.  
  
I smiled, though she couldn’t see it. “Yes, Sarah. I’ll go.”  
  
“Great! Okay, so what do you want to do about the girls? Use the child-care thing?”  
  
“No,” I said. “Maybe if I decide to keep going, I’ll take them with me, but… not now.”  
  
“Okay,” Sarah said. “We’ll get Neil to look after them, then.”  
  
I went back to scrubbing the dishes. “That sounds fine. The meeting’s at five, so I’ll bring them over around… four?”  
  
“Four’s good. Don’t worry about dropping them off, though. I’ll pick you all up.”  
  
“You will?” I said, frowning. “What for?”  
  
“Well, I’m going with you, obviously.”  
  
I paused.  
  
“If that’s okay, of course,” she added.  
  
“I… Yeah, that’s fine. I was going to ask, actually. You just… surprised me. But yeah, I’d like to have you there.”  
  
“Great!” She sounded happy. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”  
  
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
True to her word, Sarah picked us up around four. We dropped the girls off at her house, where Crystal greeted them excitedly—she was in middle school now, sixth grade, so she didn’t see my girls as much. I said hello to Donny and Rebecca, who would be watching my girls with Neil, and we moved on to the meeting; I’d called the number on the pamphlet that morning to let them know we’d be coming, and they’d given me the address.  
  
We pulled up at our destination, parking on the curb across the street. The meeting was being held in a church, which… didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. There was a big marble cross on the steep, peaked roof, and slabs of stone embedded in the grass, forming a wavy path from the asphalt to the wide wooden double-doors. A sign taped to the door, just below the stained glass window, told me we were in the right place.  
  
Sarah turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Ready?”  
  
I took a deep breath. “Yeah,” I said, and pushed the door open.  
  
The inside was your typical church fare: long wooden benches in rows either side of the nave, with an altar at the end and aisles along the sides. There was nobody there; no priests or church-goers or anyone. Another support group sign sat just before the benches, pointing toward one of the side passages. I followed it along, leaving the main body of the church behind, Sarah trailing after me, our footsteps echoing about the empty halls.  
  
At the end of the hall were two more signs; one pointed outside and read ‘Childcare’—I could hear kids out there, laughing and shouting—while the second anointed a door on my left, reading ‘Please knock!’ I did so, and a few seconds later the door was opened by a stupidly beautiful latino woman.  
  
It wasn’t often I felt jealousy.  
  
“Carol Dallon?” she said, brushing dark hair behind one ear. She didn’t have an accent.  
  
I nodded. “Yes, that’s me.” I gestured to Sarah. “And this is my sister, Sarah.”  
  
She smiled and held out a hand. I shook it, as did Sarah. “I’m Maria,” she said, moving back so we could pass. “We spoke on the phone. Nice to meet you.”  
  
“Same to you,” I said, entering the room with Sarah beside me. The room wasn’t particularly large. There were tables pushed up against the walls, one lined with rows of various crackers and dips and other assorted snacks, a few jugs of water and plastic cups sitting off to one side. ‘Parents Moving Forward’ was displayed in bright letters printed on one of those frilly string banners where each letter had its own little flag, hung across the back wall.  
  
Maria ticked something off of a clipboard she was holding, then folded her hands over it and turned to us. “Would you like a drink?”  
  
I shook my head, but Sarah accepted, and Maria fetched her a cup of water. Then she took us over to the middle of the room, where a group of other people sat in chairs arranged in a circle—exactly as I’d imagined. Four women, including Maria, and three men. A few of them smiled or raised a hand in greeting as we approached. Maria pulled up two padded chairs for Sarah and I, and we all took our seats.  
  
“Jamie’s not coming today,” Maria said, putting her clipboard on the floor and looking around the assembly. “She says Jonas has a dentist appointment, so everyone who’s coming is here, now. And we have a new attendee!” She smiled and turned to me. “Carol? Would you like to introduce yourself? Tell us a little about your situation? Just the basics is fine, we can get into details later.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“It’s alright if you don’t want to,” Maria said, folding her hands in her lap. “The others can introduce themselves first, if you’d prefer.”  
  
Sarah put her hand on my knee and squeezed gently.  
  
“No,” I said. “That’s alright, I don’t mind.”  _Come on, Carol. This isn’t court. You can do this._  I looked around the room and raised one hand in a pitiful wave. ”I’m Carol Dallon. I have two daughters in fourth grade, Amy and Victoria. My husband… he, uh… he died six months ago.” The other attendees gave me sympathetic nods, and I turned to Sarah; I didn’t want sympathy. I didn’t know  _what_  I wanted, but sympathy wasn’t it. “This is my sister, Sarah. A friend referred me here, but I haven’t decided if I’ll attend regularly yet.” I glanced at Maria. “Is that okay?”  
  
Maria smiled. “That’s fine,” she said. “Thank you for sharing, Carol.” She looked around again. “Now, who’d like to start us off? Introduce yourself for Carol and tell us what’s happened since our last meeting?” The woman on her left raised a hand, and the introductions began.  
  
First was Faith, a forty-something African-American woman. Her husband had died of a nicked artery in a construction accident, leaving her with four teenage kids and an unpaid mortgage. She talked about how she’d just gotten a promotion at her work, and how her eldest had picked up a part-time after-school job to help out with his sisters, and everyone thanked her for sharing when she was done.  
  
Next was a slightly overweight man named Charles, whose eyes were sunken and red. His girlfriend of twelve years had left him and their son a couple months ago to be with someone else—a member of some new gang called the Archer’s Bridge Merchants, apparently. I’d never heard of them. He talked about her history of drug abuse and how his son was handling the situation, and confessed he’d relapsed on his own drinking problem. Maria and another man gave him some pointers on controlling addiction and referred him to a rehabilitation clinic and a babysitting service, in case he needed them, the others dispensing comforts all throughout.  
  
Kenneth was a forty-something asian man whose husband had disappeared almost three years ago, without a trace. He hadn’t been seen since, and it seemed the police had assumed him dead. Kenneth gave an update on his adopted twin sons, preparing for their final exams as high schoolers, and Maria and the others congratulated him on his progress—though I wasn’t sure what they meant.  
  
Ashlyn’s husband had died protecting her and their four-year-old son from a drunk Empire thug who had been condemning her as a ‘race traitor.’ Her and Charles’ stories served as a stark reminder of the criminal infestation in Brockton Bay; the rampant violence and peddling of contraband that hardly seemed to slow no matter how many thugs the Brigade arrested.  
  
And then there was Gracie: a direct counterpoint. A girl in her late teens with a one-year-old son, attending for the second time. She’d gotten knocked up in high school and married her baby daddy, who had then got himself killed robbing a jewellery store  _with_  a bunch of Empire goons.  
  
Gracie’s story made me uncomfortable. I knew, logically, that gang members and criminals—most of them, at least—were just normal people with families and jobs; hell, I’d taken Marquis away from his daughter and adopted her myself, and I’d  _seen_  him at his job while doing reconnaissance. Usually I managed to ignore that aspect of their lives, and usually doing so was easy. They made their own beds, it was only fair that they lie in it.  
  
But listening to Gracie’s story; how her husband Don had dropped out of school to support her after she was kicked out of the house by her mother; how he worked two part-time jobs for twelve hours a day earning minimum wage because the good jobs didn’t go to high school dropouts; how he got fired from one job for not stopping an armed robber from emptying out the till, then  _became_  the armed robber just so he could feed his wife and son. Hearing how she described him as loving and caring and sweet, listing off the things he’d done for her and unable to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks…  
  
Yeah. It made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t ignore it like this; the state my city was in, the state of its  _people_. When good people had to turn to crime to make a living… In college, my criminology professor had always said crime was only a symptom of a greater disease. I’d never believed him. But, now? I wasn’t so sure.  
  
And it happened again: the appeal of superheroing dwindled ever further.  
  
After she recovered, Gracie talked about how she’d followed the advice people had given to her in her first meeting, and shared the results. Apparently, they’d suggested she arrange a meeting with her mother, using her father as a go-between, to see if they could repair their relationship. I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—her mother sounded like a grade-A bitch—but Gracie said it had gone well, and they’d discussed the possibility of her moving back in so her parents could help with the baby.  
  
Despite my reservations, I found myself feeling glad for her; and missing my own parents. My relationship with my mother had never recovered after my father’s death and the… the kidnapping. Sarah and Donny had joined me when we cut ties, and I was glad she no longer a part of my life; I still shuddered to think I might never have found out what she’d done if not for Donny. But I couldn’t help but miss that. Having a mother.  
  
I’d expected anger from Ashlyn—Gracie’s husband had been a member of the same gang that killed her husband, after all—but I saw only sympathy and compassion. It surprised me, how easily she could look beyond it and understand the pain beneath.  
  
In her position, I wasn’t sure I could have done the same.  
  
Maria went last, talking about how she’d recently gotten back into the dating scene since her wife died last year, and how her adoptive son was doing in school, and making jokes about the difficulties of a being a lesbian hispanic in Brockton Bay.  
  
Throughout it all, I found myself empathising with every last one of them.  _Sympathising_. I… wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I felt like a hypocrite.  
  
But before Maria, a tall, skinny man with dark hair and spectacles stood from his seat—the man who’d given advice to Charles. Danny Hebert, he introduced himself. His wife was killed by a drunk driver almost nine months ago. No-one had been charged. He talked about his daughter, mostly. How she’d taken up the role his wife had filled around the house, taking extra chores and making breakfast for the both of them, even though she was only eight. How she was coping well with her mother’s death; or at least, how she  _seemed_  to be—much like my own girls. They’d returned to their bubbly, energetic selves not even two weeks after Mark’s funeral, for the most part. But I knew they were still hurting, even if they tried to hide it.  
  
When everyone had said their piece, Maria asked if I wanted to share a little more. With hesitance that surprised me, I said, “No, maybe next time,” and the meeting was adjourned. The clock on the wall read quarter-to-seven. A few people grabbed their kids and left, while others stayed to talk with each other. Maria made circles around the room, stopping to chat with everyone before they left.  
  
Sarah bumped me with her elbow, leaning in to my ear. “That’s the guy Alan Barnes told you about, right?” she said.  
  
I followed her finger. She was pointing toward Danny Hebert, who was currently talking with Charles. “I think so. Why?”  
  
“Let’s go talk to him.” She grabbed me by the arm and started toward him.  
  
“What?” I squawked. “Why?”  
  
“You told me Alan thought you’d get along,” Sarah said. “And I told you before, you need a friend you can talk about this stuff with. So we’re going to make you one.”  
  
We arrived beside him just as Charles was leaving. Sarah gave him one of her winning smiles and held out a hand. “Hey,” she chirped. “Danny, right?”  
  
Danny blinked at her, then shook her hand. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re Sarah, and…” He turned to me, holding out his hand. I shook it. “…you’re Carol. Nice to meet you.”  
  
“Likewise,” I said.  
  
“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” Sarah said. “You know Alan Barnes, right?”  
  
Danny blinked again. “I do. My daughter is at his house right now. How do you know Alan?”  
  
“I work with him,” I said, before Sarah could take over the conversation. If I was going to do this, then  _I_ was going to do this, not let her do it for me. “He told me about… all of this.” I made a vague gesture around the room.  
  
“ _Oh_!” he said, smiling. “Carol Dallon, right, of course. Sorry. Alan  _did_  tell me about you, actually; a few days ago.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “He did? What’d he say?”  
  
Danny shrugged. “Just that you might be coming, and to look out for you.” His smile turned sheepish, and he reached up to run a hand through his hair. “I sort of… forgot. Sorry.”  
  
Sarah laughed. “You don’t use the daycare service?”  
  
“What?” Danny said, turning to her and furrowing his brow.  
  
“Your daughter,” Sarah…  _sort of_  clarified. “You said she was at Alan Barnes’ house.”  
  
“Oh!” Danny shook his head. “No, I don’t. I usually, uh… I usually go for drinks after these meetings. Taylor spends the night at Alan’s house—she’s best friends with his youngest. This stuff… brings up memories.” He jerked upright, holding his hands up. “Uh, don’t misunderstand me. These meetings are helpful—a lot more than I expected. I just need time to… wind down, afterwards.”  
  
I nodded. “I can see that.”  
  
Sarah glanced between us. “Would you mind some company?”  
  
Danny was visibly taken back. “Company? You mean the two of you?”  
  
“Just Carol,” she said. I shot her a look, and she smiled at me. “She tells me Alan thinks you’d get along.”  
  
Danny glanced at me. “I… guess I wouldn’t mind, no,” he said. “But, uh… don’t you have two daughters?”  
  
I sighed. “Yes, I do,” I said, glaring at Sarah again.  
  
“Oh, they can spend the night with me and Neil,” my sister said with a dismissive wave. “Crystal loves having them over—Eric never really lets her play up the ‘big sister’ role quite like Amy does. And besides: you need some downtime, Carol. You spent a month as a full-time parent, and now you’ve gone straight back to work.” She grinned. “Take a night. I got this.”  
  
I rubbed the back of my head. I glanced at Danny, then back to Sarah. “Fine,” I sighed. “Just… make sure they brush their teeth properly, instead of just faking it. And let the girls sleep together, in case Amy has a nightmare. And don’t try to make Victoria eat peas. And—”  
  
Sarah laughed. “I got it, Carol, I got it. They’re kids. They’re  _all_  like that. Crystal decides she doesn’t ‘do’ a new vegetable pretty much every week—this week’s is broccoli, in case you were wondering.”  
  
“I guess…”  
  
“They’ll be fine,” Sarah said. “I promise.” She pushed me forward and picked up her bag, then headed for the door. “Have fun!”  
  
Then she was gone. I glanced at Danny—he was smiling lopsidedly, though it was light upon his lips, barely noticeable.  
  
“Did you bring a car?” he said.  
  
“No. Sarah gave me a lift.” I sighed—more than a little ruefully—as I moved to grab my bag. “I should have known she’d do this.”  
  
“I didn’t bring my car, either,” Danny said. “Split a taxi?”  
  
I looked at him; he had one eyebrow raised above the rim of his glasses.  _Well, if I’m going to do this, I might as well make the most of it. Good impressions, Carol. Good impressions._  
  
I gave him my best smile. “Sure.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
We got off at an old brick-and-mortar establishment, a sign above the door proclaiming it as the ‘Bayside Bar  & Grill’—though it was nowhere near the Bay. The windows were small and inset, and the door was large and made of wood, with long elegant patterns carved into its surface and a black metal grate where there would otherwise have been a miniature window.  
  
We walked down the steps—the bar was built lower into the ground than a regular building—and entered the bar. The first thing I noticed was the motif; the style. It was all rather rustic. Old-fashioned. The tables and chairs were all polished wood with dark leather padding—the floor was polished wood, too, but that was mostly covered by rugs and carpets. There were only about a half-dozen other people present, most eating at their tables, alone or with a partner.  
  
The lights on the walls were antique in design, almost like torch sconces. There was a pool table in the far corner with a jukebox just behind it—both styled in a similar fashion—and a wide-screen television mounted above the bar, playing the news. Danny and I took seats at the bar, and ordered our drinks.  
  
We sat there for a long while—it felt like ten minutes, but it was probably less—without saying a word.  
  
I wasn’t sure what to do. And didn’t that seem to be happening a lot, lately?  
  
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone to a bar. Unless Mark’s wake counted. No, that was a restaurant; not every place that serves drinks is a bar. Though this place could conceivably be called a restaurant, too. A waitress was walking about with a tray of drinks in hand and a laminated menu under her arm, and the sounds of a kitchen could be heard even with the jukebox playing some classic rock song; quietly, but still. The food looked rather appetising, too. Maybe—  
  
I shook my head to clear it. The point was that I hadn’t done this sort of thing for a long time. Years, even. I remembered the firm hosted mixers on special occasions—that is to say: every other month—but I’d stopped attending after the second or third such get-together, not long after the end of my internship. It wasn’t really my scene, even then.  
  
So I wasn’t entirely sure we were supposed to  _do_  here. What Sarah  _expected_  us to do. Just drink? No, that’d be stupid. She’d want me to talk to Danny. As would Alan. They wanted me to make friends with him—or at least  _try_  to. And I’d said I would.  
  
Problem was, I was probably better at  _milking cows_  than I was at making friends, and I’ve never touched a cow in my life—at least, not a whole one.  
  
I glanced at Danny; he held a half-empty glass in his hand—bourbon or whiskey or something, on the rocks—and twisted it in his fingers absently, looking down at it but not really focusing. Now that I was closer to him and not the focus of everyone’s attention, I could actually take note of his appearance.  
  
Tall, skinny and bespectacled, I’d gotten already. Those were pretty obvious. Less obvious were the callouses on his hands that spoke of manual labour or fist fights. The pale, hairless scars on his arms, visible now that his sleeves were rolled up. There was muscle there, too, though it wasn’t developed enough to really stand out.  
  
I could also see part of a tattoo on his shoulder, a blue and black depiction of something I couldn’t quite make out. An anchor, maybe. And he had a hint of stubble on his chin and jaw, and a mole where his neck met his collarbone. His eyes were intent, though slightly sunken. His hair dark, short-cut, and unkempt.  
  
As a whole, he was reasonably good-looking. He wasn’t conventionally handsome like Mark had been, or quite so much of a rugged stereotype of manliness as Neil was, nor did he have the air of roguishness about him that Donny did. Instead, Danny seemed to embody… reliability. Something only compounded by how simply he was dressed: a long-sleeved, button-up work shirt over dark jeans and clean brown boots.  
  
So no, he wouldn’t fit in as a model for men’s underwear. But… I could see the appeal there, all the same.  
  
Danny’s gaze shifted in my direction, and I jerked back around to my own drink. I didn’t want him to think I was staring. But anyway, making friends. You can’t do that without talking. And talking is something I  _can_ do. Probably.  
  
Alright. Pick something safe, something easy, something to break the ice… Ah!  
  
I looked at him. “So—“  
  
“So—“ Danny began.  
  
We cut off at the same time. I fought to keep how mortified I was off my face. There was a long moment of silence, then Danny laughed.  
  
After a moment, I gave a chuckle of my own.  
  
“You go first,” we said in unison.  
  
Another moment of silence, and more mortification on my part. Danny laughed again, leaning over the bar and raising a hand to his face. It went on for a while. And it was infectious. It didn’t take long for me to start laughing along with him—though it was still an awkward laughter.  
  
After we finally calmed down, Danny wiped tears from his eyes and turned to me. “You were going to say?”  
  
I blinked. “Oh, right,” I said. “Uh, just small talk. That’s what you’re meant to do in this kind of situation, right?”  
  
Danny chuckled and nodded. “If memory serves, yes,” he said. “Alright. What should we start with?”  
  
I made myself smile at him. “I was going to ask what work you do.”  
  
Danny turned on his stool to face me, moving so the bar was to his left, rather than directly in front of him. “I’m a representative for the Dockworker’s Union,” he said, looking back down at his drink and toying with the glass. “Mostly, I just talk to employers and try and get paying contracts for the union workers. It’s not the most glamorous job in the world, but I like to think I make a difference. Help someone put food on the table.”  
  
He stopped talking for a long moment, and I was about to speak when he shook his head, gave a dry chuckle, and continued: “Though to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I’m doing. Not even one year ago I was filing papers and doing accounts in between manual labor. Then Barry died, and they offered me his job. I took it because the pay was good and the hours were lighter, and for a few other reasons, but…” He ran a hand over his face and sighed. “There’s so much politics involved, and I’m no good with that.”  
  
He glanced at me. “How long have you lived in the Bay?”  
  
I cast my mind back. “Almost fourteen years, now.”  
  
Danny nodded. “Well, I’m a Brocktonite, born and raised. I’ve only left the city maybe a half-dozen times, to visit family. When I was a kid, my dad had a stint as a delivery man. He took me with him sometimes, after school. I remember driving around in his truck, all over the city, just looking out the window. The Bay wasn’t in a great state, even then, but… it was  _better_. You know, they used to run a ferry; all the way from Downtown to the Boardwalk. The first time I rode it was in sixth grade—my mother took me—and I still remember the feeling I got when we cruised across the Bay.  
  
“That ferry is the reason I joined the Union in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. They shut it down while I was in college—studying electrical engineering, if you can believe that—not long after my dad had his second heart attack. My mother moved to Cali to look after  _her_ mother, then Annette got pregnant and her family disowned her, and Taylor was born, and… well, I couldn’t support them; not the way things were. So I dropped out and took whatever work I could get, and the Union was there. That was the second reason. But the first reason, why I didn’t  _leave_ … that was the ferry. And the  _city_.  
  
“See, the ferry only started running in ’83,” Danny continued, growing more animated and tapping the bar with his fingers, sketching out imaginary diagrams on the wood. “And those days, from ’83 to ’95? Those were the  _best_  days, at least for Brockton Bay. Before the Endbringers appeared, or at least before we really  _knew_  about them. Before all these supervillains became dime a dozen. Back when the world was  _normal_ … well, for the most part.  
  
“But the Bay always had an unusual level of crime, even in the sixties. My dad always told me that after the ferry started running, the gangs lost their hold over the city. The ferry connected Downtown with the Docks, see. And that simple connection brought  _jobs_. But when they shut it down again, that work all dried up, and the gangs started to grow again.  
  
“And I realised, there was a  _connection_  there. Crime rates didn’t rise because of some nebulous energy infecting the city, they rose because the city was bad enough that crime became an easier method for people to  _support_  themselves. That whole ‘crime is a symptom’ thing… I’d always  _heard_  that, but I never really  _understood_  it until I dropped out of college. And that old adage, that a locked door only keeps out honest folk? That applies here, I think—after a fashion. I mean, criminals will always exist. Some people are just… bad. But gangs aren’t made up  _all_ of bad folk, that’d be unrealistic. It takes all types to make a world, and that applies to gangs, too.  
  
“Good men join gangs. That’s a sad fact of life in Brockton Bay. A good man will take even the lowest-paying, most degrading job he can get to keep his family afloat. But when there  _are_  no jobs, he still has to support his family somehow. And the gangs; the Empire, Galvanate’s Army, that new group—the Merchants? They can provide that. It’s not  _safe_  money. It’s not even  _easy_  money, at least not all the time. But it  _is_  money, and that’s what makes the world go ‘round.  
  
“And that’s been happening a lot to us, lately. Workers come to me and say they’re quitting the Union. And while they don’t usually say it outright, we both know they’re going to sign up with the gangs. I try to get as many contracts as I can, to give these people—and they  _are_  good people— _real_  options. But bureaucracy and politics and greed and profiteering and all that other corporate bullshit gets in my way  _every single time_ because outsourcing and bringing in people from other cities, other  _states_ , is fucking  _cheaper_.”  
  
Danny coughed into his hand. “Anyway, as I was saying… When I first joined the Union, I saw what was happening to the city, and I saw people joining the gangs to support themselves because there wasn’t enough work to go around. And I remembered what my dad had told me about the ferry, and how it had revitalised the Bay. So I wrote up plans for it. Budgets, schedules, contractors, the lot. And when Leviathan turned up and sunk Kyushu? When shipping slowed, and the gangs got bigger, and the boat graveyard filled up even more—I made plans to clean  _that_  up, too.  
  
“And  _that’s_  why I stayed.  _That’s_  why I took the representative job, when it was offered to me. So I could make those plans a reality. So I could bring the ferry back, and help create new jobs and business opportunities for my guys, and make this city great again. Somewhere you could raise a daughter in. Before I took the job, I proposed my plans a dozen times, and I got rejected each time. I thought I’d be able to do more as a representative, but I’ve had  _three_  meetings with the mayor now, and two with the city council, and it’s  _still_  being rejected.”  
  
“And honestly, now that Annette’s gone, I’m not sure—“ Danny stopped, then shook his head sharply. “What am I doing?” he sighed, then turned to me. “I’m sorry, Carol. I was ranting, there. I shouldn’t have done that. I guess I’m just… out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing.” His voice took a wry tone. “I don’t have a big social life beyond work.”  
  
“No,” I said, holding out my hands. “It’s okay, I don’t mind, I get it. I don’t have a great social life myself. But I thought it was interesting.” I gave a lopsided smile. “Besides, I  _did_  ask.”  
  
He stared at me for a moment, then chuckled. “Well, thank you,” he said, a smile playing about his lips. “I’m glad I didn’t bore you too badly. But still, that’s enough about  _my_  life for the moment, I think. What about you? You work with Alan, you said? I take it you’re a lawyer, then?”  
  
I nodded. “Prosecution.” I grinned at him. “I don’t have as much to talk about there, I’m afraid.”  
  
Danny laughed heartily, and the awkwardness just… vanished. And that set the tone for the rest of the night.  
  
We moved on to talk about our kids. He talked about his Taylor, and how proud he was of her, and how, with the help of Alan’s daughter, she was starting to seem happy again. He started to mention how much she was starting to look like her mother, but stopped himself again, and that seemed to set a line in the sand, too. We danced around the topic of our spouses, rarely mentioning them by name, and rarely even  _referencing_  them too overtly—where possible, at least.  
  
I wasn’t opposed. I didn’t want to talk about Mark; not here, not now, and not in detail. I was just starting to  _enjoy_  myself. The support group was meant for dealing with that loss. This wasn’t. And I got the impression Danny felt the same way.  
  
But the longer we talked, the more I found myself beginning to feel comfortable around him, even sharing things with him I probably wouldn’t normally share. I told him about Victoria and Amy. How Victoria was taking the older sister role seriously—even though they were only a few months apart—protecting Amy from bullies at school, even to the point of physical violence. How Amy crawled into my bed or Victoria’s a few times a week, and got excited by the most simple of things, like watching me make her lunches.  
  
And in a burst of openness that surprised even me, I told him about Amy’s adoption. Though not the full details, of course, and with a few white lies to cover up the holes. I told him how we’d adopted her two years ago, which was true, and that it had been at Mark’s behest, which was not. I told him how I’d found it difficult to care for her properly, to see past the fact that she was someone else’s child and not mine, to  _love_  her the way she  _deserved_  to be loved, which was all  _true_ , just… not completely  _honest_.  
  
I was a bumbling ball of nerves as I talked, but Danny just sat there and  _listened_ ; not judging me or making comments, just letting me speak, even when I detailed my… neglectful parenting. How I’d supplied her material needs, but ignored her emotional ones. Treated her like a temporary guest rather than a daughter, for almost  _two years_.  
  
Then I told him how I’d changed my tune after Mark’s death. How I’d realised—admittedly, with the help of my sister—that Amy had actually thought of him as her father, just as she thought of  _me_  as her mother, and that I needed to live up to that. And how I was now trying as best I could to do right by her.  
  
When I was done, Danny gave me his sympathies. Silly, heartfelt-but-generic things like “That sounds tough,” and “You’re a better person than you think you are.”  
  
And oddly… I didn’t mind them. I wasn’t sure why.  
  
I also wasn’t sure why I was feeling so open, now, though I at least had  _theories_  for that topic. It could have been because he’d been so open with me, even without being asked. There was a desire to reciprocate that I was not at all accustomed to.  
  
Or it could have been  _because_  he was a stranger. Which was an odd thought to consider, as that had been one of my primary arguments  _against_ the support group, because I’d thought talking to strangers couldn’t possibly help me.  
  
But weirdly, the lack of any kind of existing relationship seemed to make it  _easier_  to share those more intimate, personal details, like my poor treatment of Amy. Or perhaps not so weirdly; after all, I didn’t really care what Danny thought of me.  
  
Only, for some reason, I  _did_. So it  _was_  weird.  
  
_Argh!_  
  
I finished off by confiding that I was worried I’d somehow… damaged Amy. Scarred her. Affected her psyche in such a way that she didn’t feel wanted, even now. And the thought of that  _terrified_  me, especially after I’d remembered how often  _I’d_  felt that way in the past, and how that had broken  _me_ —which I  _knew_ was true, even if I didn’t like to admit it.  
  
But of course, I didn’t tell him any of  _that_. Just that I was concerned.  
  
Danny’s response? He reminded me that kids are flexible. At her age, Amy was likely to just  _forget_  how distant I’d been in her early years with me, so long as I remedied the situation—which I  _was_  doing. She’d move past it.  
  
That was something I knew already, on an instinctive level if not an intellectual one—I just hadn’t quite  _recognised_  it yet. And it was something I think I needed to hear. That I hadn’t irrevocably ruined her life; that I still had a chance to be a proper mother to her.  
  
I was thankful. And I told him so. And the conversation lulled—equal parts resurged awkwardness and the comfortable silence of good company.  
  
Then we came to the mutual and inexplicably simultaneous decision to have some fun, and we played a game of pool. We shared stories as we played; mostly inane, innocuous ones, like how Danny’s father had taught him to play when he was five—though he didn’t tell me that until  _after_ he’d won.  
  
It was close, though! If I hadn’t sunk his nine by accident, I might’ve taken the trophy myself.  
  
After our game, we sat down and ordered dinner: two plates of char-grilled steak with fries on the side and a copious amount of salt. Not the healthiest meal I’ve ever had, but there was nothing wrong with that, surely. The girls weren’t around, after all—I didn’t need to set a good example here.  
  
We talked some more as we ate. I soon found a smile—small though it was—had grown on my lips, and it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.  
  
—————————————————  
  
I excused myself after our game of darts—which I  _did_  win fair and square; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—to visit the bathroom. I entered the ladies’ toilets, stepping sideways as another woman passed, and pushed into a cubicle to do my business.  
  
On my way out, a box on the wall by the entrance caught my eye; metal all around with a coin slot on one side and a dispenser at the bottom.  
  
A condom machine.  
  
I paused.  
  
An odd feeling buzzed in my stomach—like butterflies, only not. A familiar heat I’d been feeling for at least an hour now, but hadn’t paid much attention to.  
  
_Maybe…_  
  
I shook my head. No. Danny was kind and sweet and charming, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him on  _some_  level, but… no.  
  
There were a lot of reasons  _why_ I decided no _;_  it wouldn’t be right, I wasn’t sure I was ready, I had no idea if  _he_ was attracted to  _me_. And others.  
  
But the crux of it was that I was  _enjoying_  this; just spending time with someone I liked— _platonic_  time. I wanted— _needed_  a friend; Sarah was right about that. But while it was true I hadn’t had a  _real_  orgasm since  _weeks_  before Mark died, I wasn’t so starved that I’d complicate matters—or ruin them entirely—by bringing sex into  _this_. Not if I could help it.  
  
I left the bathroom, and worked my way back to Danny. The crowd had filled out as the sun set, and more than half the tables were now stacked with plates of food and surrounded by noisy patrons.  
  
I looked around as I moved through the room. A young couple had taken our places at the dart board. A group of five or six older—that is, middle-aged—folk were dancing by the jukebox. A trio of girls laughed around the pool table as the eight ball was sunk, and they moved to pack up.  
  
I felt a grin coming on. “Hey, Danny—“  
  
Someone bumped into me—or maybe I bumped into them; I wasn’t exactly looking where I was going—and I stumbled into Danny. I slid one foot out to try and balance myself, but he caught me in his arms, one hand snaking around my back as my head knocked against his chest and my own hands clutched at his shoulders.  
  
“Carol?” Danny said. “Are you alright?”  
  
Slowly, I stood, regaining my balance. I nodded without looking up at him. “I’m fine.” I withdrew my hands from his shoulders and straightened, still not letting him see my face. I could  _feel_  the heat in my cheeks. It was an odd feeling, after so long. But I didn’t quite move away. “Thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said, then the awkward silence reared its ugly head once more. “Uh, what were you about to say to me?”  
  
Finally confident my face had returned to its normal state, I looked up at him. He had one eyebrow raised. I glanced over to the pool table—which the trio of girls were just now leaving—then back to Danny and nodded toward it. “Best two out of three?”  
  
—————————————————  
  
The clock struck eleven just as we were paying off our bills. Danny yawned, rubbing between his eyes. “Whereabouts do you live?” he asked.  
  
I looked at him. “Downtown,” I said. “Clearmont Valley.”  
  
He blinked, then smiled lopsidedly. “Near Arcadia? That’s a way aways. I live on Skylark, not too far from here. Not  _quite_  as nice a neighbourhood—“ he grinned as he spoke “—but at least we’ve not had much crime. So…” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You want to share a taxi again? Skylark’s on the way to Clearmont; could save you a bit of cash.”  
  
“I… could live with that,” I said, returning the smile.  
  
We had the bartender call us a taxi, and piled into the back. Then—  
  
“Wait!” I said, opening the door again just as the driver was about to pull out. “Sorry. I’ll be back in just a moment.” I grabbed my bag and hurried back into the bar—and into the bathroom.  
  
I bought six condoms, shoving them as far into my bag as they’d go.  
  
I refused to let myself think about it.  
  
—————————————————  
  
The drive was quiet. A companionable quiet—probably. I was pretty sure the awkward feeling I had was just in my head. I spent the minutes staring out my window as the city passed by. The assortment of shops and bars and restaurants—most now with their shutters down and security doors locked—quickly faded to run-down suburban houses peppered with the occasional convenience store or post office.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, the taxi pulled on one such suburb. Danny handed the driver a pair of tens, then glanced at me. “Well,” he said, “this is my stop. I, uh, had a good time tonight.”  
  
I didn’t quite manage to look at him directly. “So did I.”  
  
“Good, I’m glad. Well… I guess I’ll see you at the next meeting?”  
  
“Maybe,” I said.  
  
“Or if you ever want to, uh, talk, you can… Did I give you my number?”  
  
I turned toward him a little more, locking my eyes on his collar. “I don’t think so.”  
  
He scratched at his forehead, this time. For some reason, I took more notice of it now than I had before. That  _had_  to be a nervous tic. “Well, that needs to be remedied, I think. Do you have a pen?”  
  
I did. I said as much, and handed it to him. He started scribbling some numbers down on the back of his receipt from the bar.  
  
_A nervous tic?_  He’d been doing that all night. That… that meant he was nervous, right? Why was he nervous?  
  
Danny clicked the pen and handed it back to me, his receipt folded around it. “So, like I said: if you ever want to talk, you can call me there. It’s my home number—I can’t quite afford a cell yet.”  
  
I tucked it into my bag. “Thank you, Danny.”  
  
Danny nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” He got out of the taxi, shutting the door behind him, and walked up the path to his house.  
  
I watched him go.  
  
My fingers brushed the roll of condoms in my bag.  
  
_Don’t even think about it, Carol,_ a part of my mind said.  _Don’t ruin this._  
  
_You’re not going to ruin anything_ , another, larger part argued.  _You need this as much as he does. Don’t deny yourself._  
  
_Don’t._  
  
“Danny!”  
  
He turned. I met his eyes.  
  
“Can I… come in?”  
  
He blinked owlishly, but didn’t respond. A long moment later, he nodded.  
  
Grabbing my bag, I left the taxi and hurried up to meet him by the porch.  
  
—————————————————  
  
I kissed him as soon as we were through the door, throwing my bag to the side. Danny froze—just for a moment—then kissed back, sliding his tongue in to meet mine. I leaned up, pressing my body against his, pushing him slightly backward as I ran my hands down to his belt. He bumped into the door, knocking it closed, and blindly threw his keys at a bowl on the entryway cabinet—they missed and fell to the floor. Danny’s hands moved to my hips and pulled me closer to him, but not aggressively.  
  
We took uncertain steps deeper into his house, still joined at the mouth. His hands roamed up and down my sides, one stopping just below my hips to squeeze my rear, the other coming to a rest between my shoulder blades. My own hands continued to fumble at his belt, and I finally succeeded in pulling it free of the loops on his pants—it went on the floor with his keys.  
  
He bent down, forcing me to bend backwards to remain connected, and hopped onto one foot, awkwardly removing his shoe. I grabbed his shirt and scrabbled at the buttons. His shoes went on the floor, his shirt following a second later. He withdrew a moment for breath, then he was back again, our tongues resuming their clashing dance.  
  
Then it was my turn.  
  
We continued stumbling backward. I saw a couch out of the corner of my eye, and angled us toward it. Danny pulled at my jacket; I moved to accommodate, and together we freed one of my arms. Then his hands moved to work at the buttons on my own shirt, and I cast off the rest of my jacket myself. He drew my top off my shoulders, pushing my arms back while I kicked off my heels. All we had on now were socks, pants, and underwear.  
  
I felt something bump the back of my leg, and broke our kiss for a moment to look back at it—I’d bumped into the coffee table. I kissed him again, then grabbed his shoulders and turned us around. He made a sound in my mouth, and I pushed him down onto the couch, kneeling over him. I ran a hand down his stomach—slightly pudgy—and slid it beneath his waistline, gently fondling the growing bulge in his pants to hardness.  
  
Danny groaned into my mouth, and pulled apart. I moved to kiss at his throat, rubbing my knees together. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Wait,” he said. I kept suckling, but he pushed me back. “Carol,  _wait_.” I pulled away, sitting on his stomach and meeting his eyes.  
  
“What?” I said. My voice was husky. I continued fondling him.  
  
He put a hand to his face. “What are we doing?” he sighed.  
  
“Having sex. I hope.”  
  
“I mean—we barely know each other. I don’t—I—“  
  
I reached back with my spare hand and undid the clasp on my bra, sliding it off my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.  
  
Danny stared.  
  
I leaned forward, pressing against him again, his chest hair tickling my skin as I brushed my breasts against him. I put one hand on his shoulder for balance; my other hand gripped his hardness, stroking it up and down with a soft touch.  
  
“If you want to stop,” I breathed against his cheek, “just tell me.”  
  
Danny groaned, rolling his head back. “That’s not fair,” he said. “I haven’t—“ He grunted as I tightened my grip momentarily. “It’s been a year. More.”  
  
I leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time, savouring the feeling. He turned into it. “Does that matter?” I said when I pulled away, then licked a trail up his jaw.  
  
He shuddered, and I released my hold on his shaft, instead sliding down his body and grabbing the waist of his pants with both hands. I peeled it down, slowly. Danny lifted to accommodate, and a few seconds later he had only his underwear on—well, that and his socks. I grabbed the hem of his boxers and dragged them down too. They caught for a moment on his bulge, but then there were past, and his cock popped out to slap against his stomach. He groaned again as the cold air reached his crotch.  
  
I crawled up his body to kiss him again, one hand returning to stroke him, slowly at first, but getting faster. My other hand hooked the waistband of my own pants and began sliding them off. I felt Danny’s hand touch mine, and a tension was released on the opposite side, and we slid my pants off together, letting them fall.  
  
I kissed him, our tongues intertwining so deeply we were left panting for breath. I stroked him faster, gripped him tighter, twirled a finger around his nipple and pinched gently. His groans increased in frequency, in fervour, in intensity, and I felt his hands grip my hips almost to the point of pain.  
  
I saw his toes begin to curl out of the corner of my eye. Danny closed his eyes and rolled his head back. “I’m—“  
  
I stopped.  
  
Danny slumped, his head dropping back onto the couch. He groaned again. “Why?”  
  
I pulled back. “One second,” I said, putting a finger to his lips. I ran back to the entry way, where I’d dropped my bag, and grabbed the roll of condoms I’d bought. Then I ran back and pulled one from the packet. Danny watched me.  
  
“Were you… carrying those around?” he said. “Just in case?”  
  
I snorted—which was decidedly unfeminine—as I slid the rubber over him. “I bought them in the bathroom,” I said. “At the bar. Now be quiet.”  
  
Once the condom was on, I crouched over his hips, pushing him back down with one hand and using the other to position his cock just beneath me. Anxiety settled in my stomach.  
  
“W-wait,“ Danny said. “What about you? Don’t we need to—“  
  
“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m wet enough already.”  
  
Using one hand to keep things lined up, I lowered myself onto his cock. We both moaned in sync as it pushed inside me, spreading my folds and penetrating to my core. I slid further down, and Danny’s hands came up again to grasp my hips. I brought a hand up to massage my breasts, using the other to keep Danny held down. My eyes closed as I rolled my head back, biting my lip and only managing to draw shaky breaths.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, my hips met his. He was fully inside me.  _It feels bigger than it looks._  I opened my eyes and looked down at Danny. His eyes were glazed, slightly out of focus, his lips parted, his expression one of ecstasy. I smiled—though I expected it ended up as more of a smirk.  _Very gratifying, Danny. Thank you._  
  
I looked down further, to my hips, where we were joined. My stomach was distended by his girth, my abdominals bulging slightly, making the long-faded scar from my c-section just that little bit more noticeable. I thought I could feel his cock throbbing inside me, but it was probably my imagination. I wiggled my hips a bit, drawing another moan from him. I moaned as well; his pubic hair tickled as it rubbed against my pussy.  
  
Danny’s hands slid around my waist. His fingers squeezed my flesh between them, and he bucked his hips beneath me. My smirk became a grin. “Alright, then.”  
  
I rolled my hips against his, undulating my back as I did so; a slow, twisting movement forward, and an equally-slow grind back. Repeat, building up speed with each movement. Danny moaned and writhed beneath me. He reached up a hand to pinch at my nipples, but I grabbed it by the wrist and pinned it against the couch, continuing to caress myself with my other hand.  
  
On one forward grind, I lifted myself up until I felt the head of his cock resting  _just_  inside my entrance, nearly out. Cool air swept between us, making Danny gasp as a shiver ran through me. Then I pushed myself back down fast, taking him all the way to the root in an instant. Danny shuddered—and his cock shuddered with him, drawing a moan from my lips.  
  
I leaned forward and kissed him, continuing to grind my hips against his, moaning around our joined lips. My breasts squished against his chest, his hair tickling my flesh. I punctuated every few of my hip movements with a hard bucked, impaling myself on Danny’s cock and making him grunt each time. Danny’s hands slid up behind my back, one squeezing my ass, the other intertwining with my hair, grasping the back of my head.  
  
He pulled me closer to him, bucking his hips beneath me and thrusting inside me himself. I pulled away with a growl, biting his lip as I went, and pulled off the hand on my head. The one on my ass I allowed. Danny got the message, and dropped his other hand to my ass, too. Then I grabbed  _his_  head and mashed my lips against his, sending my tongue to swirl in his mouth.  
  
I added a circular motion to my hip movements, gyrating clockwise slowly. Danny groaned and thrusted up harder, faster. I felt heat build in my core, a familiar tingling appearing in my loins.  
  
My phone rang. I ignored it.  
  
I started panting, and sped up my own movements again, grinding my hips against his as hard as I could without hurting myself. I withdrew my hand from his head and instead used it to massage my breasts, pinching and tweaking my nipples; the other hand I sent down to my pussy, where it rubbed and circled and flicked at my clit.  
  
I arched my back as I came—my knees squeezing together over Danny’s chest, my head rolling back as cries of pleasure escaped my throat. My entire body shuddered, and my pussy clenched down around his cock as my juices squirted onto his stomach and legs.  
  
Danny groaned and thrust his hips up harder than ever before, lifting me clean off the couch and supporting my weight with his body alone—but only for a moment, then he dropped back down and leaned forward, burying his face between my breasts. He ran one hand along my shuddering back and squeezed my ass with the other, thrusting faster and harder into me and grunting with each thrust.  
  
My hands found themselves on his shoulders, and I cried out again as I came a second time from his continued thrusts. He cried out too as he nuzzled at my neck, and I felt his legs shudder beneath me as he climaxed himself. The condom ballooned inside me as his cum filled it to the brim.  
  
His arms tightened around me and pulled me close. My arms slipped around him too, and we pressed our bodies together as we shared a shuddering orgasm.  
  
It felt like an eternity, but our climaxes finally ended. Danny slowed his thrusts, making only jerky bucks every few seconds as if in some futile attempt to get back what we just had. I opened my eyes. His forehead was pressed against mine, and he had his eyes closed. He was panting for breath. I withdrew my arms from his back and pulled back slightly.  
  
He loosened his embrace and opened his eyes, meeting mine. I brought a hand up to his face, caressing his neck, then leaned forward and kissed him as passionately as I could manage. He reciprocated, and I rolled my hips against his, making him groan.  
  
A few minutes later, we parted. I panted for a moment, as did he—his breath tickled my cheek.  
  
_It’s not enough._  
  
“W-what?” Danny said. I’d spoken out loud again. Danny’s voice was as husky as mine, and he paused to clear his throat.  
  
I stood, letting his cock pop out of me and slap against his stomach again. My legs were a little shaky, but I forced myself past it. I gripped his cock and peeled the condom off, stuffing it back in the wrapper. Driblets of his cum splattered onto his stomach and thighs, mixing with my juices.  
  
I grabbed a fresh condom and peeled it from its wrapper, then knelt between his legs and ran a hand along his still-hard cock, the leftover cum gathering on my palm. I wiped it on a tissue—a box had been handily placed on the coffee table—which I then deposited on the table with the used rubber.  
  
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I want to do it again,” I said as I slid the condom over his cock. My words were rather stilted; I was still panting, and my breasts heaved with each breath.  
  
Danny stared at me for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. “Not here,” he said, standing and steadying himself on the couch. “Upstairs.” Then he turned and headed up the stairs.  
  
I watched him, then grabbed the condoms and tissues and followed.


End file.
